Book of Shadows

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 4:15 P.M.

I just did a bad thing.

I want to talk about it but I also sort of want to keep it a secret, which is why I’m writing about it here. That’s what diaries are for, right? To keep our darkest secrets safe.

It’s ironic, since my wanting a diary is what started this whole thing off in the first place. I’ve never had one before—I’m not really much of a writer, except when school forces me. But Lara is always scribbling away in hers. She says it helps, whenever she’s feeling frustrated or angry or upset, to write out her feelings instead of doing something stupid. God knows I’ve done plenty of dumb things in my life—stealing, destruction of property, mouthing off to teachers, getting into fights. But I’m trying to quit all that now, and I figured if having a diary helps Lara, it might work for me too.

So maybe it was a little counterproductive to go out and steal a diary, then.

I don’t know exactly why I did it. It’s been ages since I pocketed anything. I thought I was over that little hobby. I’d even set aside some cash to buy a blank journal to write in, and I went to the mall fully intending to purchase one. Like a normal person.

I spent an hour in the bookstore there, flipping through the ones they had, but I couldn’t stand any of them. Lara’s diary is made out of recycled paper and the cover is pressed bark, and there’s a strap made from woven hemp twine that you can use to as a bookmark. It’s so very perfectly Lara, and I wanted a journal that suited me just as well. Something with a little personality, but spare me the pale pink crap with kittens all over it, or inspirational sayings at the top of every page, or Bible verses. Ew.

Maybe it’s not normal to want to copy your best friend in everything she does. But the thing is, Lara is truly a remarkable person. I used to think I was pretty badass, picking fights with people when they pissed me off. I never felt so powerful as when I was punching and kicking the hell out of some asshole who picked on me or called me a name. But then I met Lara and realized that she is ten times the badass I am.

Lara’s a witch. Which seemed . . . a little odd to me at first, because I didn’t believe in witches. I thought it was like saying you were a vampire or a werewolf. But real witches aren’t like the ones you see in movies and cartoons—it’s an actual religion. Lara has been a practicing Wiccan for a couple of years now, which is so incredibly brave. Especially since nearly everyone else in our school belongs to this one huge, ultraconservative church that hates gay people and premarital sex and alcohol and . . . well, fun. And when I say it’s huge, I mean HUGE—with about twenty thousand members, most of whom show up every week. It’s so big it’s made the national list of mega-churches, and that’s how everyone refers to it around here. Though the members call it the church, as if it’s the only church that has ever existed, or ever will—the rest of us call it the mega-church.

As far as the mega-church people are concerned, being a Wiccan puts Lara in league with the Devil himself. That’s fine with me—I prefer Lara’s Devil to their judgmental, hypocritical God. And I think I could do a lot worse than try to be more like her.

With that in mind, today I skipped the mall and went downtown to White Rabbit. It’s Lara’s favorite bookshop because it specializes in rare, esoteric volumes, and they have a really good section on magic and the occult. White Rabbit is one of the few places in town that actively resists what’s been going on with the mega-church, and isn’t afraid of pissing them off.

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting to find there. It’s not like they have a big selection of diaries or anything. It’s a cramped little box of a storefront, and they don’t have room for much, let alone a library of journals. But something pulled me there today, and I found myself in the occult section. I scanned the shelves, noticing books with the titles, The History of Witchcraft and Demonology, The Lesser Key of Solomon, The Black Pullet, The Picatrix, The Discoverie of Witchcraft, crowding the packed shelves.

Then my eye caught on this one book. Unlike the others, it didn’t have a title on its spine. With a cracked, leather binding, it looked much older than its neighbors. Most were paperbacks from the eighties and nineties with lurid, colorful covers. But this one had gold embossing engraved into its matted, black leather. I took it down from the shelf, my eyes widening when I felt its cover—soft and unusually hairy, as if made from animal fur. Gold covered the pages’ edges, shining a bit in the dimming candlelight flickering in the store. More gold in fine, wispy lines decorated the front and back covers in a frightening design. At first I thought it was an abstract pattern, but as I stared at it, I started to pick out shapes—twisty vines and wilting flowers, animals with human faces, and sneaky looking little monsters. It was hard to see them at all through the delicate tracery, but if you looked closely enough, you’d catch an eye staring out at you, or a gleaming golden fang. Each one was different, and incredibly detailed. Thinking there had to be a title somewhere, I turned the book over and over again, searched its spine and looked for words hidden between the unusual figures. But nothing.

I flipped it open but couldn’t find a title inside, either. In fact, I couldn’t find any words at all. There was nothing but blank pages, all the way through. Each page was so thin I could see my hand through it, but at the same time they were strong and firm, like it would actually be difficult to bend or crease one.

But no printing, no writing, not so much as a coffee stain anywhere in the book. Not even a tiny little mark by the manufacturer. It was the strangest thing to find squeezed in among all these regular books!

My first thought was, why would someone go to all this trouble to make a blank book? But then it hit me—of course! It was meant to be a diary. Like all those other blank books I’ve been looking at recently. It felt like fate—that I had walked into this specific store on this specific day, and gone to this specific shelf and found this beautiful book, right when I was in search of the perfect diary. Clearly I was destined to possess this book.

So the obvious next thing to do was to bring it up to the counter and buy it, right? And I swear, that’s exactly what I was going to do. But then, before I even started moving in that direction, nerves overtook me. I realized a book this beautiful and old and carefully made would have to be really expensive. Probably way more than I had in my wallet, more even than I could get my hands on. Holding my breath, I flipped open the front cover, where all the other books in the shop had their prices penciled in by the owner in a neat, light hand. But there was nothing there. I checked every surface, inside and out, but of course I’d already noticed the book was completely blank. I couldn’t find a price marked anywhere.

I should have asked about the price, but I didn’t. I panicked. All of a sudden, a strange and terrible feeling washed over me: a tightness in my chest, a panicky flutter in my pulse. I thought, what if it’s too much? I had to have this book at any cost, but there was no way I could afford it. I hadn’t figured for spending any more than twenty bucks on a journal. If I had to, I could probably scrounge up more . . . do some chores around the neighborhood, borrow from friends, wheedle from my parents . . . But by the time I managed all that, what if I came back and the book was gone? What if someone else walked in five minutes from now and snatched it up? I thought about asking the man behind the counter to keep it for me, but that seemed risky too. What if that drew his attention to how precious this book is? What if he decided he could get more money selling it to some antiques collector? Or a museum, or a university library? I’m not sure what a library would want with a blank book, but I was suddenly consumed with the idea that this was the most precious object in the world, and anyone who saw it would instantly want it. I couldn’t chance that.

So I took it.

And it was almost too easy. The White Rabbit doesn’t exactly have high tech surveillance cameras everywhere. There was no metal strip on the book to set off any kind of alarm. From where I was standing between two tall bookcases, I was out of the owner’s line of sight, and he was the only other person in the store.

The fact is, I’ve lifted in much more difficult situations than this. At one time in my life, I would have walked out with this book just to prove that I could—for the fun of it. But I’ve really been trying to put all that behind me. And I thought I did exactly that. So what happened? I can’t justify it, but I couldn’t resist. I shoved the thing into my bag, held my breath, and walked out the door.

It’s strange, though—the whole thing made me feel more anxious than I ever have before. Normally I know how to look totally calm and innocent in these situations, but this time I had no chill at all. I had to physically restrain myself from breaking into a run. I kept a quick pace until I was at least halfway home, and then leaned against a wall long enough for my heart to stop racing, and pulled the book out to look at it in the daylight. If anything, it looked even more magnificent than it had in the dim light of the shop. I could see how bright the gold markings were, and how intricate the pattern. I felt a buzzing sort of glee to think that I owned this object, and I let out a wild laugh right there by the street. But as I slid the book back into my bag, that giddy feeling crossed with something else. Something darker—a cold, creeping sensation deep in my gut.

I don’t know, maybe it was guilt over what I’d done, or fear about getting caught.

But I’m definitely not bringing it back. I love it too much. Even now, at home, I can’t stop taking it out to stare at it and run my fingers along its surface.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 4:30 P.M.

Oh right, I forgot to mention one other thing. The truly absurd part of this story is that, after all I went through to find and get this book, I’m not actually writing in it. I don’t know why, exactly. I’ve wanted a beautiful diary to record my thoughts in for so long, and yet for some reason I’m typing my thoughts into a file on my laptop.

But it seemed . . . I don’t know, inauspicious? To begin my new diary by writing about this kind of shitty thing I did to get it. I don’t want to spoil it right away with anything negative.

As soon as I think of something good to write, I’ll inaugurate it properly.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 12:14 P.M.

Almost two weeks have gone by now and I still haven’t written in my new diary. I keep waiting for inspiration to strike, but every time I think I have something to say, I open the book up and feel so intimidated by those empty white pages with their gold borders.

It’s like a mental block. I keep telling myself, if I can get past this nervousness and write something, then the rest will take care of itself. So I thought, what about my name? If I put that on the first page, it won’t seem so overwhelming to add more.

But then, right as my pen was about to touch the page, I started worrying if I should be writing my name in the book at all. If this is going to be my diary, that means I’m going to put all my most private thoughts in it. What if someone found it by accident? Do I really want to make it so easy for them to connect it with my name? That seems like a bad idea.

When I first found the book, it felt so right and perfect for me, like it belonged with me. But now I think it must have been meant for someone else—someone with more impressive things to write in it. Maybe a world traveler, writing up their adventures? Or a poet, making notes for their great epic? I could do that, too, instead of using the book as a diary. Perhaps its purpose is bigger than that. I could try to fill it with something creative—short stories or song lyrics. I don’t know. For some reason, that doesn’t feel right either.

I’ll keep waiting and hope the right idea comes to me. Until then, I’ll record my thoughts here on my laptop.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 10:23 P.M.

Okay, I have an idea: tomorrow I’m going to bring the book to school with me. I always have more to say in school than when I’m at home, so that might help inspiration strike. I’ve been thinking, if it’s not the book that prevents me from writing, maybe it’s being in my boring old bedroom, where I never do anything but homework and sleep. At school, there’s always plenty to think about and react to and get enraged over—mostly the stuck up Queen Bees who see nothing wrong with being rude to everyone who doesn’t go to their stupid church.

They’re obnoxious, but impossible to avoid. The whole social life of Middleton High School revolves around them, their parties, and their clubs. All the popular kids know one another from church, and they exclude anyone who isn’t a member. They’re all mean and judgmental, and if you don’t go to their church, you might as well be a complete social pariah.

Of course, they’d never admit that. They’d probably say there are other reasons I’m a social pariah—like wearing black every day and dying my hair neon pink and electric blue, and listening to dark, angsty music instead of their insipid God-rock. I’ve been going to school with most of these kids since we were little, and they have always treated me and the others who aren’t in the church like shit.

I figured out early that there were only two ways to deal with these people. You can suck up to them and flatter them and try to force yourself into their narrow definition of acceptable behavior. Or you can rebel, reject them, and embrace the role of the unrepentant misfit. With the second option, at least you mostly get left alone.

Since I do have some self-respect, that was what I chose. But unfortunately it only makes them leave me alone most of the time. That means on any given day, there will still be people shooting me dirty looks, whisperings and giggling, being openly rude, and worst of all, offering to pray for my immortal soul. Is it any wonder that hell sounds better than any heaven where I’d be surrounded by these patronizing little shits? And is it any wonder I’ve been known to smack the sanctimonious looks off their faces from time to time?

Luckily as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to realize I’m not the only person outside the mainstream. Now that I’m in high school, it’s easier for me to spot the other outcasts and try to bond with them. That’s how I became friends with Lara. If anything, Lara stands out even more in this school than I do. She was actually raised in the church all the popular kids belong to, so it made some pretty big waves when she left it two years ago to become a Wiccan. She started out reading fantasy novels in junior high—wizarding and magic and all that stuff. Seems innocent enough, but the mega-church people threw a fit. They said she was putting her soul in danger by reading about wizards and witches performing spells—that these books were tools of the Devil designed to draw her into the practice of black magic.

The irony is, up to that point, Lara had never heard of Wicca. It was everyone obsessing over the dangers of demonic influences that made her look into alternate religious paths. And when she finally came out as a witch, the mega-church people completely lost it. Hardly any actual schoolwork was done that semester, as everyone was caught up in constant meetings over whether she should be expelled or forced to go to some deprogramming camp. People were having candlelit vigils for Lara’s soul. It was incredible.

Anyway, that’s how we became best friends. Not right away, of course—I admired Lara from afar, but I was too intimidated to